By the time he came to bed he had
a beer in the lobby,
a double whiskey,
another phone call with our insurance company and roadside assistance.
The sun was rising when he showered,
slipped under the duvet,
answered the questions that kept me from falling asleep,
“It’s sunrise,
you did well,
sleep, sleep,
I love you.”
By the time I bought three different milkshakes in Amboise for babies one, two, and three,
we’d given up any hope of sleeping in.
My little one made sure of it.
Mommy, are we in Paris?
Mommy, I’m hungry.
Mommy, can I get crepes?
“May I!” he said, half asleep from under the duvet.
He asked me, “Why are you up?”, looking at me
fitting wide soft straps over my shoulders,
cradling my reclaimed territory in generous cups,
adjusting cleavage before pulling a white deep v-neck t-shirt over my head.
My thighs,
my bum,
my mound still uncovered,
still waxed,
still trimmed,
still manicured,
since our beginning.
I pretend not to notice him watching me bend forward,
step into,
pull up,
adjust,
the cotton underwear I got in London last year,
constructed for comfort,
trimmed with lace around the waistband.
He says, “I’m up,”
opens the door of our hotel room,
bangs on the door next to ours until the younger of our two teens opens the door.
“Get ready, we’re going out.”
The teens groan, hiss, eye-roll, “da-aaa-ad!” at him,
meet us in the lobby with Symi and Bali, our Portuguese Water Dogs.
By the time he was driving us along the banks of the Loire,
he had rented a car,
still attempting to get either our insurance or Tesla
to transport our family car from Orléans to Tours.
Biting his tongue,
refusing to snap,
letting me and the girls
lean on him,
drill him,
snap at him,
discharge.
The last time our Tesla broke down,
it was in Vigo, in the middle of the night,
our daughters, me, and him, locked out of the car in the cold.
By the time we got back to Porto, the sun was rising.
By the time our car got back to Porto, Christmas and the New Year had happened.
By the time Tesla replaced the high-voltage battery, the girls were back at school for many weeks.
Two years later,
in the middle of the night,
stuck at a toll booth outside of Orléans,
waiting in the cold,
two cats,
two water dogs,
three daughters,
one shitty wife,
and him, annoying the crap out of me,
each sentence,
each question,
each jab:
“Yes BB, you’re right,
yes BB, just like last time,
yes BB, I don’t know, but it’ll handle it.”
Fucking annoying.
Only, “Yes, BB, we’re covered.”
I fucking hate him
when he does not bite,
when he does not fight,
when he’s
being cool,
being calm,
being collected,
not enabling me
to let it rip,
to unleash my rage,
to nuke incompetent policy robots.
His being, fucking forcing me,
to fucking breathe,
to fucking step back;
still coaching him from the passenger seat,
still making sure he doesn’t forget or let things slide.
By the time he dovetailed
the luggage,
the cats,
the dogs,
our cackle of girls into the car to continue our trip,
he and I had driven from
Tesla in Tours, to
Tesla in Paris,
my youngest in the back for safekeeping,
redirecting our broken car’s ride from Tours to Paris en route,
picked up a much smaller replacement car from Tesla,
ordered Salad Niçoise for lunch which he sent back because it was neither salad nor Niçoise,
had fish and chips instead,
drove back from Paris to Tours in separate cars,
returned the rental car to Sixt,
showered, shut our eyes,
cleaned, vacuumed, mopped our Airbnb,
made sandwiches,
left before dawn the next morning to keep our appointments in Germany.
By the time I merged into traffic,
he had fallen asleep in the passenger seat to my right.
I shushed my girls,
switched on the heating of his seat,
put on Sade,
had my man sleep for as long as he needed.
By the time we were near Paris,
my hips sat deeper behind the wheel.
I turned east,
put on my sunnies,
placed and spread my soft leopard print neck-scarf on his lap,
watched the sunrise in the distance.
Cherish The Day faded in on the car hi-fi.
